


Frazzled

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [102]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5780368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January, 2013: Northern Ireland's new year takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frazzled

**Author's Note:**

> Shamefully, I'm once more repurposing a ficlet I wrote for GD for the basis of this... As I'm moving things along with Wales and Romano's relationship, I wanted to add something about this specific point in Iceland and Northern Ireland's relationship to FtF, too, and it fit in well with the timeframe required.
> 
> (Apologies to hitsu and nekoian if you read this, as you will have seen half of it before!)

* * *

 

**1st January, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland**

  
  
  
Northern Ireland flips his wafer-thin pillow over, folds it in half, and then pummels it down in the hopes that a redistribution of mass might make it feel a little less like it’s filled with gravel.  
  
Upon lying back down, however, he discovers that not only is the pillow somehow even _more_ uncomfortable than before, but he’s also managed to yank the blanket off his feet with all his thrashing around, leaving them exposed to the glacial air (Scotland’s central heating being set to switch on only with the coming of the next Ice Age).  
  
And then Wales starts snoring.  
  
It begins as it always begins, with a low, rumbling growl that reverberates up through Wales’ chest until it reaches the back of his throat, whereupon it seemingly gets stuck. There then follows a deceptive moment of silence – during which the uninitiated listener might be fooled into thinking the worst is over – before it’s suddenly dislodged in a phlegmy snort that’s so loud and explosive that it makes Wales’ head bounce from the recoil. The whole process repeats roughly every twenty seconds, and, once set into motion, will carry on without pause until morning (or he is forcibly woken, as tends to be the case whenever he falls asleep in Scotland’s vicinity).  
  
Whatever the hell the pillow’s stuffed with, it does absolutely nothing to muffle the sound when Northern Ireland puts it over his head, and shuffling kick he gives the blanket to re-cover his feet only results in it twisting tightly around his legs, consequently leaving his torso exposed the Arctic conditions instead.  
  
A shiver races through his body, raising hairs and goosebumps in its wake, and fuck it, he’s _never_ going to get to sleep at this rate. It was difficult enough for him to settle before, with just the substandard bedding and lack of mattress to deal with – Northern Ireland doesn’t begrudge Iceland use of the one and only airbed down in the living room, but he sure as hell begrudges England’s ridiculous prudery, which consigned Northern Ireland to the spare room floor instead of the slightly more commodious accommodations offered by Scotland’s lumpy sofa in the first place – especially since he’s been desperately craving a cigarette for _hours_.  
  
He’d managed to sneak one in just after dinner, whilst England was distracted by some ridiculous argument with Wales about the best way to dry cutlery, but that had been the only chink in his brother’s otherwise eternal vigilance. Though it may be focused on keeping Northern Ireland from having the sex he has no intention of partaking in instead of stopping him smoking for a change, the outcome was the same regardless.  
  
As he shakes and aches and wishes suffocation on Wales, it gradually occurs to Northern Ireland that England’s all-seeing eyes must be well and truly closed for the night, because, despite the nasal cacophony, he’s failed to propel Wales onto the floor.  
  
Northern Ireland cautiously pushes himself upright, his legs and arms spread wide to avoid putting too much pressure on any of the creaky floorboards (of which there are many; Northern Ireland blames Scotland’s habit of stomping around the place with no consideration for the fact that he’s built like a prop forward and weighs about as much as a small car), and peers towards the bed.  
  
England and Wales are entangled so closely that, in the dim light, it’s difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Charitably considered, they could have huddled together for warmth, but Northern Ireland has awoken enough times in his life to having the breath squeezed out of him by both of them to know that they simply tend to grab onto the nearest body whilst unconscious and cling on as hard as they can. From what little Northern Ireland can make out, Wales’ face does seem to be pressed up against the back of England’s neck, which means England will likely have to face burst eardrums on top of the embarrassment of being spooned by his brother and the traditional Hogmanay hangover come morning.  
  
Careful to keep his tread light, Northern Ireland slips out of the bedroom, and then quietly shuts the door behind him. The wood, however, is almost as ineffective as the pillow when it comes to absorbing Wales’ snores, and they ricochet down the hallway ahead of Northern Ireland, echoing loudly off the walls and ceiling. It’s a wonder anyone can sleep through the din, but apparently Northern Ireland’s the only one who _can't_. Everything’s silent in Scotland and France’s room, and also in the study, where Ireland is luxuriating in solitude on the sofa bed, thanks again to England’s offended sense of propriety. Northern Ireland is pretty sure that Ireland doesn’t give a shit about the propriety of the situation, least of all England’s conniptions over it, but she sure as hell gave a shit about not having to bed down on Scotland’s grotty floor, and only made the most token of protests about the arrangement.  
  
At the top of the stairs, Northern Ireland pauses, expecting England to launch himself out of the spare bedroom, fuelled by fires stoked in the name of the righteous defence of Northern Ireland’s lungs and genitalia.  
  
Not that he has anything to worry about on the latter score, as Northern Ireland is dressed for neither romantic endeavour nor seduction, clad as he is in pyjamas pinstriped in yellow, green and purple – a combination surely chosen by England with the protection of chastity in mind, because they couldn’t possibly flatter _anyone_ – which, thanks to his most recent growth spurt, are several inches too short in both the arms and legs. That could well have stood him in good stead a century or so back, though he has his doubts even the most repressed of Victorian gentlemen would have their virtue troubled by _his_ ankles, which are as pale and knobbly as the rest of him, and currently disfigured by a cluster of scars old and new thanks to his travails on the football pitch. (He’s come to believe that he has ‘Please Illegally Tackle Me’ tattooed across his forehead in an ink that only the burliest and most heavy-footed of players can read. Of which Scotland is most definitely one.)  
  
Besides which, he’s nowhere near prepared enough to speak to Iceland; an undertaking which requires a great deal of planning on Northern Ireland’s part. If he doesn’t take the time to think up topics and mentally rehearse possible conversations beforehand, all his attempts to talk to the other nation – or just about anyone, really, to be honest – quickly devolve into horribly awkward silences and subsequent red-faced shame.

This he blames on his brothers, as ‘horribly awkward’ seems to be a family trait (a genetic scourge escaped only by Ireland, but one Northern Ireland wasn’t lucky enough to inherit along with her hair), and he'd only been brave enough to extend Iceland an invitation to Scotland's Hogmanay celebrations in the first place because they were always raucous enough that he could be reasonably sure of never having to be solely responsible for Iceland's diversion or entertainment at any point during the night.  
  
So, when England fails to appear to drag him back to his gravelly pillow and scratchy blanket nest, Northern Ireland bypasses the living room entirely and heads straight to the kitchen, where, with any luck, cigarettes might be found.  
  
He hadn’t bothered to bring any of his own, as England is like a sniffer dog trained to find tobacco products, always managing to root them out somehow, no matter how deeply Northern Ireland might bury them in his bag (whereupon he will take great sanctimonious delight in either ripping them to pieces or flushing them down a toilet). Instead, Northern Ireland had intended on either borrowing or stealing them from Wales for the duration of their visit to Scotland’s; a strategy which has served him perfectly well in the past, as Wales smokes like a chimney and so always has an almost limitless supply of fags to hand at all times.  
  
If Northern Ireland knows his brother – and Wales is nothing if not predictable in some regards – he will have at least one packet stowed away in his coat pocket, intended to sustain him on the long, arduous treks from Scotland’s house to the pub or the corner shop. And Wales' coat, last Northern Ireland had seen it, had been unceremoniously shoved into a cupboard in the kitchen – one which would probably have contained food in the home of someone who didn’t subsist on take-aways and tinned goods – because they have guests, and hospitality rules apparently dictate that guests deserved to have first dibs on the limited decent storage space and thus unwrinkled clothing, whilst family could have theirs just chucked wherever it might fit with no regard to how it will look afterwards. Northern Ireland’s own coat had been left draped over the back of the sofa, and has probably been carried off by the _ùruisg_ to line their nests or some such by now.  
  
Due to Scotland’s uncanny knack for sensing wasted electricity, turning on the kitchen lights is a risk, but it’s a calculated one nevertheless, because blindly blundering around the place has a higher likelihood of bringing a wrathful England down on Northern Ireland’s head instead. Scotland, at least, wouldn’t give two shits what Northern Ireland might be doing wandering around the place in the middle of the night beyond the pecuniary consequences. He’d probably just moan about the size of his bills for a bit, then give Northern Ireland a lighter and a condom and tell him to knock himself out.  
  
So long as he did it in the dark, anyway.  
  
Wales' coat is nestled alongside a sad and incredibly ancient-looking bag of unopened flour in the cupboard, exactly where Northern Ireland expected it to be, and an exploration of its pockets soon nets him a disposable lighter and a Lambert and Butler packet. Unfortunately, the latter contains only one cigarette, so he will have to take pains to make it last as long as he can and savour every lungful.  
  
He unlocks and then eases the back door open with the utmost care and consideration for its rusted hinges. He's rather proud of his efforts, as they make not a single creak or squeak of alarm throughout the manoeuvre.  
  
Outside, the air seems positively balmy, but only in comparison to the polar vortex circulating around Scotland's house. Northern Ireland rues his poor planning the very instant he steps into Scotland's tiny back yard and his fuzzy bed socks reveal themselves to be powerless against the deep, icy chill of the flagstones underfoot.  
  
He briefly contemplates going back inside to retrieve Wales' coat, but ultimately decides that he doesn't want to push his luck a second time and risk getting caught creeping through the kitchen when he's not even managed to get a speck of much-needed nicotine into his system.  
  
Fuck savouring, he's just going finish up out here as quickly as is physically possible because the scratchy blanket he'd been so short-sighted as to malign is becoming a more and more attractive proposition with each passing second.  
  
He puts the cigarette in his mouth, but before he has chance to light it, a quiet voice emanating from the darkness behind him says, " _Norður_?"  
  
Northern Ireland winces. Iceland is a preferable alternative to England, but only by a very narrow margin.  
  
He'd already told Iceland the one good anecdote he'd been saving up in preparation for their meeting earlier in the day, and he now hasn't the slightest clue what else he should say to the other nation.  
  
"Hi," seems as though it should be perfect as an opening, a safe bet, but, spoken around the filter of a cigarette, it emerges from his mouth so muffled and indistinct as to be practically unintelligible. He flushes, palms the cigarette again, and, turning to face Iceland, makes a second attempt at basic civility. "Hi."  
  
In a demonstration of good sense that puts Northern Ireland to even more shame, Iceland has donned a coat before stepping out into the wilds of the Scottish night. It doesn't appear to be _his_ own, however, as its sleeves are so long on him that they cover most of his hands and only the very tips of his fingers remain visible.  
  
When he moves a little closer and into the faint patch of light bleeding out through the kitchen window at their backs, it becomes obvious that he's actually wearing _Northern Ireland's_ coat. It seems an odd choice, as the jacket Iceland had brought with him is both smarter and far thicker than Northern Ireland's, and should have been easily accessible to him, besides, seeing as though, as a guest, he'd been granted the honour of hanging it on one of the hooks mounted in the hallway right beside the kitchen door.  
  
Iceland must misinterpret his puzzled look as accusatory, as a guilty expression flashes over his face. "Sorry," he says, "I hadn't thought you'd..." He begins unbuttoning the coat. "Here, you should have this, not me."  
  
"No, please, keep it," Northern says hurriedly. "I was the one who stupidly forgot that it might well be fucking freezing at three o'clock in the morning in January, not you. I'll only be a few minutes, in any case."  
  
Iceland frowns. "What _are_ you doing out here?"  
  
"Needed a fag. I'd offer you one, but I only have this." Northern Ireland holds his purloined cigarette up in demonstration. "You don't smoke, anyway, do you?"  
  
"Not usually," Iceland says. "I wouldn't mind sharing that, though."  
  
Half is better than none at all, Northern Ireland supposes. He lights the cigarette, and whilst he takes his first, deep drag on it, Iceland steps even closer, close enough that their shoulders momentarily brush together, no doubt trying to offer some measure of his superior, coated heat. Northern Ireland appreciates the gesture, even though he doesn't feel perceptibly any the warmer for it.  
  
When he passes the cigarette along to Iceland, Iceland fumbles it a little, and their fingers slide against each other glancingly. Iceland's hand, in contrast to his shoulder, is surprisingly warm despite his lack of gloves.  
  
Iceland runs the tip of his tongue across his lips before he puts the cigarette between them, and when he hands it back to Northern Ireland again, the filter is slightly damp.  
  
Northern Ireland's chest tightens when he realises, because it seems oddly intimate, somehow. It seems an odd thing to notice, full stop, as he's shared cigarettes with Wales and Scotland in the past and never even registered that small, insignificant detail before.  
  
It feels even more intimate when Iceland takes his next drag, because then it's almost as if they've just...  
  
Northern Ireland groans softly.  
  
"Are you okay?" Iceland asks, sounding concerned.  
  
"Fine," Northern Ireland reassures him immediately, but, frankly, he's not. Not at all.  
  
No matter what he might find hilarious to allow England to believe, he's never once considered Iceland as anything more than a friend. Nor would he ever want to, because he's still firm in his opinion that romantic entanglements of any kind are a complication that he'd be infinitely better off avoiding.  
  
And yet his pulse had jumped at that that half-formed thought, regardless.  
  
He suspects – he _hopes_ – it was simply a fleeting slip of a tired mind that's more than likely slowly succumbing to exposure.  
  
If he doesn't allow himself to dwell upon it, if he dismisses it henceforth, it will doubtless prove itself to be nothing more than a momentary aberration.  
  
Completely and utterly meaningless.


End file.
